into which (a primitive sample of the old Irish silver" potatoring") was piled a smoking heap of floury potatoes "in their jackets," off which, washed down with "noggins" of buttermilk, the three hardy young Clare men made a hearty and apparently quite satisfying meal. The ubiquitous pig that pays the rent was this time conspicuous by his absence, but his place was taken presently by a huge flock of hungry turkeys, who, timing the end of dinner-hour to a nicety, trooped in from the rock-bound pastures outside in search of a meal. This was soon given them in a wholesale and generous fashion, the housewife simply sweeping the entire remains of the dinner, potatoes, skins and all, straight on to the floor, to be gobbled up " clean and clever," and disappear as if by magic under the beaks of the devouring birds. No need of waste-bins or vacuum-cleaners there! And the turkeys, too, along with the American letters, have doubtless a good deal to do with the successful paying-off of that overdue debt at the grocer's shop in the nearest town.

Despite their isolation, however, these people in their desperate struggle to live are seldom allowed to feel really lonely. It is only the stranger and new-comer amongst them who feels anything of loneliness and tedium. Take, for instance, the case of a young priest living in one of these barren and desolate regions, far from any of his friends, and from the whole outside world of culture and civilisation and refinement. I was told lately by one of a party of priests, who went on a yachting holiday trip years ago round the Clare coast, of a meeting they had with a lonely young curate stationed in one of its most desolate districts. Having cast anchor in his vicinity they hospitably invited him to dinner on board their yacht. The invitation, so seldom coming in his way, was gladly accepted, and he, being an Irishman and equally hospitably inclined, asked them in return to tea at his house, which was about the utmost he could do. His residence-all of it-was hardly the size of one good room in an ordinary house, and consisted really of only one room, the larger portion of which was partitioned off as a dwelling-place for his landlord and his wife and a large young family. The other and smaller half was apportioned as the priest's bedroom and sitting-room in one.

Here the young priest entertained his newly-made friends to tea; and whatever drawbacks there may have necessarily been with regard to space and the extent of hospitality were amply atoned for by genuine kindness and by the music of their host's fiddle and the many good songs and stories forthcoming on all

sides. When the reverend company were ready to depart— and their pathway back to the yacht was by a steep and precipitous cutting down the rocks, intersected by several stiles and stone-walls-the mistress of the cabin said to one of her many bright-eyed and bare-footed youngsters: "Bridie, alanna, take a light in your hand and show the gentlemen back to the ship. The night is dark, and it's an easy way a body would miss their footing on the rocks."

Thereupon Bridie, bare-legged, loose-limbed and unkempt of tresses, took a lighted sod of turf from the open hearth, and, preceding the reverend gentlemen, sped down the pathway before them like a young creature half-antelope, half-sprite, brandishing the now blazing turf sod wildly in the breeze above her head like a flaming torch!

Every South of Ireland tourist is familiar with the stone walls of Co. Clare, loosely piled on top of each other without trace of binding mortar or cement, and ready to clatter noisily down in a heap at the first rude touch. Some of them have here and there a small round opening in their sides; and once asking a Clare farmer the meaning of this, I was told : "Sure, ma'am, that's only to let the little sheep look through. As long as they can see through into the next field like that they'll be quite content in their own quarters; but if the hole wasn't there for them, they'd be always wantin' to climb over the walls and breaking them down in their endayvours to see what the world was like on the other side."

NORA TYNAN O'MAHONY.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER

Whose son died when nearing the day of his Ordination

"YES, 'tis my gentle boy who stands

In that loved altar's mellow glow,

Who speaks the wondrous words, and lo!

Holds God Incarnate in his hands.

The blood that feeds his heart is mine;
His is a largess greater yet,
For he repays the filial debt
By giving me the Blood divine."

Forecasting thus a glorious hour,
Thy hopes cheered many a sullen day,
Oh, soon will come," thy soul would say,
"The fruit-time of my tree-in-flower."

Or, watching life's strong current flow,
Now smooth, now dancing as in glee,
"A joy supreme it brings to me
Some day," thy heart would murmur low.

Ah, me! I but recall a dream,

In dreams alone that joy was thine; The bark that bore such hopes divine Sank in the darkly-rushing stream.

But no, it sank not, only bore
Its freight too swiftly to the sea
That rolls, in crystal purity,
Its waves upon the eternal shore.

He will not lay anointed hand

In blessing on his mother's head,
Yet count him not among the dead,
Faith lifts the veil to see him stand

In light before the throne of Him
Whose boundless love is ever sung
To music rapturously flung
From golden harps of Seraphim.

Cherish that joy thy heart forecast ;
It is not dead, it only waits
Till he beyond the sapphire gates
Welcomes his mother home at last.

E. MATTHEWS, O.M.I.

OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES

By EMMA O'HARA

CHAPTER I

CERTAINLY a new church is needed; there can be no two opinions as regards that, though there are many as to how the necessary funds are to be raised. One other point finds all agreed wherever Father Seaton's project is discussed: never has there been such a bad year alike on land and sea; never a more unpropitious time at which to be reminded of the duty of sacrifice.

· Stands to reason us beant able to give nought with never a herring coming into bay," argue the fishermen, lounging idly on the jetty, waiting the tide to carry them forth to another fruitless night of toil. "Father Seaton be a powerful preacher," says Farmer Hales, knocking the ashes from his pipe, as he sits in his comfortable chimney-corner, "but I can't go along wi' he on this giving tack. Where's all the money coming from, I wants to know? Not from us, farmers. Let un look to our blighted crops. How be us to give to the Almighty when He don't give to us?"

"What a beggar Father Seaton is!" murmurs a lady, tossing a letter aside at the breakfast table. "I wish your brother would sell the Hall, Clare, I am sure I never want to see the damp old place again. Why need we think of old ancestors and tiresome modern dependents? Just the sunshine and flowers, and this dear little Villa suit my simple taste, darling, but Gilbert is really medieval in his ideas. And why,' she continues fretfully, do they want a new church at Kemp's Cross, when they have the chapel your great-grandfather built; and I'm sure there's a gem of a church at Westquay.”

"

The chapel is almost ruinous, mother, and Westquay is ten miles away."

"Well, that is a mere step," airily responds her ladyship, who motors everywhere.

'But you will send Father Seaton something, mother? ''Oh, well, I suppose we must, as it is on our property; but write and tell him, Clare, how many claims we have, and

that we are quite, quite poor. Indeed I don't know how we are to get through next season in town. Three guineas, that is all I can possibly afford. We'll post on the way to Lebrun's, dear. Bibiche must positively have that coat we saw yesterday; it's frightfully expensive, but the darling will look so sweet in it; won't he, my petsy doggie? "

So the new church is discussed, and, in his barely-furnished study, the good old priest, guessing something of these unfavourable comments, experiences a feeling of discouragement.

He can sympathise with his poor flock, but he cannot restrain his disappointment as he lays down the letter from Mentone. "Stewards of so much," he says to himself, "yet so little mindful of the Master's due. Ah, if only Sir Gilbert were not in India it would be different, but my Lady!" and then he breaks off, praying to be forgiven his harsh thoughts of her nevertheless he sighs heavily as he acknowledges the meagre cheque.

Has he, after all, imposed too great a task on himself and these few sheep in the wilderness?

"Yet, O God," he cries, "it is for Thy glory; undertake it for us." and then, falling on his knees, he supplicates for that faith which can remove mountains when united to Our Lord's will.

Meanwhile, in a cottage on the cliffs two children are putting their heads together in earnest consultation. "What can we do to help?" that is the problem which Phil and Winnie have been trying to solve ever since the previous Sunday when Father Seaton besought them all so earnestly to take each a part in the building of God's sanctuary. "None are too poor or weak," he had said, "everybody may do something. If you cannot even give a widow's mite in money, give what is more than money, your prayers. Faith and prayer can work miracles now as of old. Ask God to teach you, and be sure He will show you how to help."

So they have asked, but hitherto no answer has come; no angel has appeared, and no good saint spoken, as in the beautiful stories they have often read, and they can think of no plan whereby they may earn even a penny of their own. They are still at school, and though now it is holiday time, and Phil is doing odd jobs for Farmer Hales, his scanty earnings are sorely needed this winter to help the widowed mother who supports the little household by her laundry work. There is bed-ridden Granfer to be maintained also; Granfer who is so old that it is